Without A Trace
by silver.rain.854
Summary: For Sherlock Holmes, there's nothing like the thrill of the case. It is what he lives for, but what happens when 'the work' becomes personal? When John Watson is kidnapped by a crazed fan, Sherlock is forced to to think like never before.
1. Tea Cups and Chromatic Scales

"No, that was definitely longer than two hours of renovation! Look at the angle of the sunlight on the carpet, you idiot."

Black leaked over the TV screen in a dull flash.

"Why is it that you people always see-"

"But never observe?" finished John, sighing heavily as he clicked a few letters on the keyboard. "I don't know, Sherlock, I suppose we can't all be like you."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and pulled his legs up onto the couch in a fast, fluid motion.

"Thank god," muttered John a few seconds later. A world full of people like his friend was enough to make him shiver in terrified anticipation. It would be complete and utter chaos, anarchy.

"What was that?" asked Sherlock.

"Nothing," replied John quickly, flipping shut his laptop with a gentle click.

"I wouldn't pin any hopes on that one, if I were you," called Sherlock as John walked into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

"What are you talking about now?" came the reply.

"The girl you were sending an email to. She's not interested in any sort of serious relationship, self-esteem problems, you know the sort… likely to have multiple boyfriends simultaneously and _definitely_ not a fan of poetry."

John had long since given up on asking Sherlock how he deduced these things from seeing a person once out of the living room window. By now, he was pretty much used to accepting Sherlock's word as the truth, and moving on.

"I wish you wouldn't tell me stuff like that," said John, "couldn't you just have let her do the usual, _it's not you, it's me_ excuse?"

"I was doing you a favour," replied Sherlock indignantly.

"You don't normally find this stuff interesting," remarked John, changing the subject as he pulled out a mug from the kitchen cupboard. "Why the sudden advice?"

"Bored," replied Sherlock, flipping onto his side and splaying his legs on the couch. "Although nothing would please me more than to have something _slightly_ more interesting than your love life to think about."

"Wow, thanks, Sherlock."

"You're welcome," he replied.

John had to fight the urge to snigger quietly into his jumper at his friend's sincerity. For all Sherlock's astounding intellect and skills of deduction, sarcasm often went straight over his head. Using it on a regular basis had become John's way of feeling like there was at least _something_ he could best Sherlock at.

The kettle hissed gently, releasing a soft cloud of fluffy steam into the stale air. It contrasted bleakly with the scraping notes of Sherlock's violin that began to soar as John reached for the tea bags. Recently, Sherlock had taken to playing nothing but a single chromatic scale, over and over, then refusing to tell anyone why. It was beginning to become supremely irritating.

"Do you really have to keep…" began John, "Argh! Sherlock!"

A hairy black creature scuttled across the tiled floor, accompanied by the smash of breaking china. Sherlock's violin screeched to a halt half way between an A and A#, the remains of the scale echoing softly through the flat.

"Sherlock, there's a spider! In my cup!"

"I am well aware," stated Sherlock contritely. "Biological experimentation, John. I was the one who put it there."

"Well, I bloody well figured that!" exclaimed John, "Mrs. Hudson would hardly go around putting ruddy _spiders _in teacups!" He took a deep breath. "That mug was a birthday present from my sister, she'll kill me if she finds out it's broken..."

Sherlock shrugged and returned to his scale, not picking up on the birthday reference. John's had been a week ago, and Sherlock hadn't shown the slightest inclination of remembering. He hadn't even bothered to say 'Happy Birthday'. He knew it was trivial, but John had hoped for at least some sort of acknowledgement from his friend, maybe even a gift.

"By all means, don't offer to help clean up," grumbled John, as he lowered himself stiffly to his knees and started to sweep up the brightly coloured shards. "I'm fine on my own."

But Sherlock was already gone, completely absorbed by his world of music, facts, causes and effects, a place where none could follow him.

A dull ache began to build up in John's temples as he scraped the shards from the tea cup into the bin, the noise from the violin reverberating painfully through his skull. Mentioning he had a headache would have no effect on Sherlock, so he pulled his favourite black jacket from the back of an armchair and folded it around his shoulders.

Sherlock didn't appear to notice he was leaving, he was so caught up in whatever it was he was contemplating. John sighed. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't start having a one-sided conversation with thin air while he was out. Again. He didn't want to have to bear the brunt of Sherlock's annoyance later when he discovered John 'wasn't listening,' as he liked to put it.

The air outside was freezing, but it was an almost pleasant change from the stuffy atmosphere of 221B. Glancing at his watch, John picked up his pace-he would have to walk quickly if he wanted to reach the closest department stores before they shut. They were the only places Harry really shopped, so he was confident he could find a replacement for the mug there.

He was only a few blocks away from his destination when a shiny black car pulled up next to him, the passenger door swinging open in a gust of cold air.

"Not now, Mycroft," he told the empty space. "I'm in a bit of a hurry."

Almost as if in response to the words, John felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. A text message from an unknown number flashed up on the screen – not unusual, Mycroft was constantly changing his phone.

_ It's important, John. M_

Reluctantly, John concluded he should probably get in the car. If Mycroft said something was important, it usually - quite literally - affected the fate of the nation. He shoved his phone back into one of his jacket pockets and climbed in wordlessly. He was surprised to find himself alone in the dimly lit back seat, the blackberry-sporting woman who usually accompanied him on such journeys conspicuously absent. Brushing it off as nothing, John shut the car door behind himself with a slam.

It was only when they locked with a resounding click that he began to suspect something wasn't right.


	2. Wedding Rings and Tetrodotoxin

"John! I need you to prescribe me with antibiotics for an - Mrs. Hudson, have you seen John?" asked Sherlock, walking around in circles in agitation.

"No, Sherlock. Not since yesterday, mind you, he could have gone out for the night! I remember my late husband constantly used to–"

But Sherlock had already walked out of the room. Mrs Hudson sniffed quietly to herself before pottering back to her flat.

Sherlock was mid-way through typing out a text to John when his phone began to vibrate, Lestrade's call ID flashing up on the screen. Forgetting all about his desire for medication, Sherlock accepted the call.

"Detective Inspector," he greeted Lestrade.

"Sherlock, we've got ourselves a weird one. You'll want to get over here."

A thrum of adrenaline coursed through Sherlock's veins, painting the ghost of a grin on his features.

"What've you got?" he asked, pulling on his coat as he started to walk out of the door.

"Middle aged woman murdered in a Japanese restaurant- the Seven Lanterns, Carmody Avenue."

Sherlock's hopes fell. So far, the case did not sound particularly exciting.

"And you are calling me because…?"

"She was confirmed dead less than three hours ago. Bustling restaurant, tabs on every person who went in or out, and not one of them saw her die. Not a single witness, as if she magically died under a table."

Sherlock grinned. Much better.

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up the phone in the middle of Lestrade's reply, wanting some time to clear his head and think. No witnesses? There are several possibilities- six that he could think of so far.

"A Japanese restaurant, famous for light, raw, delicate flavours…"

It took him a moment to realise he was speaking aloud, with no-one beside him. Remembering what he had been doing before Lestrade called, he finished a quick text to John. It was usually helpful to have the other man around – and Sherlock was not one to deny credit where credit was due. John was exceptionally helpful in aiding his thought processes. A conductor of light, he had once called him.

_The Seven Lanterns, Carmody street. Be there within the hour. Could be important. –SH_

Sherlock smiled as he sent it off – the last phrase had become something of a joke between them since their first case together. He hailed a taxi in the cold night air and climbed inside, giving brief instructions to the cabby and closing the door behind him.

* * *

"She's a druggie, going by the puncture mark on her arm," commented Anderson as Sherlock walked into the restaurant, "and the syringes in her bag."

The room was spacious and ornately decorated, seven lanterns hanging from the roof and fans sprawled out like ivy on the walls.

"Wonderfully astute of you, Anderson," commented Sherlock, walking inside and glancing at the body. "Wonderfully _wrong_."

A glare filthy enough to outdo a landfill was directed across the room at Sherlock.

"Go on then, freak," remarked Donovan, raising her eyebrows and jerking her head towards the corpse. "Do whatever it is that you… do."

Sherlock stepped under the police tape in smug silence, pulling on a pair of thin, rubber gloves with a resounding snap. He surveyed the body from a number of angles, poking and prodding it, examining the soles of the dead woman's flats and rummaging through the contents of her purse, the phone still lying in her hand. After a few minutes of this silent examination, he delicately picked up a single hair that had been lying on one of her fingertips and motioned for an evidence bag.

"Run DNA tests, it will lead you to the man who ate dinner here with her tonight. If there's any evidence of recent recreational fishing, he's your killer."

"Hang on, what?" asked Anderson, as Lestrade took the evidence bag and handed it to Donovan, asking her to send it through to the labs.

"Disappointingly simple," replied Sherlock, pulling the rubber gloves off of his fingers. "Do I_ really_ have to spell it out for you?"

"That would be nice," broke in Lestrade wearily, rubbing his eyes.

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Anderson, take notes."

"She's a woman fixated on comfort, you only have to look at what she's wearing to know that. No driver's license, so she was driven here by a chauffer, not in a cab. How do you know that, Sherlock? "

He changed the pitch of his voice to ask a rhetorical question.

"Well, she'd recently been on the phone, as is obvious by the fresh make-up smeared on the screen, addressing someone below her in class, as she texted the same number to pick up her recently cleaned jewellery for her. A domestic servant with a car of their own, a chauffer, then. That suggests wealth, yes but look at her _clothes_. They are not the clothes of a wealthy socialite, no labels, quality make, but built for softness of material and comfort.  
So wealthy, female, no interest in brands, not born into money. Could be from a lottery, more likely from the recent death of her long-lost father."

"How can you-?"

"Shut up, Anderson, you wouldn't understand even if I explained it. So this woman has a love of comfort, her clothes, her shoes, her staff… Tell me, then, why has she died in such a stiff, distinctly uncomfortable position? Answer - paralysis. Paralysis can be caused by a range of poisons, obviously, but this particular restaurant is renowned for its _Fugu_ – traditionally prepared puffer fish, can cause death within seventeen minutes. Head chef barely speaks English, would not have purposely poisoned her and is the most obvious suspect… so, the poison was likely administered by someone else in an attempt to make it seem like food poisoning. Only a recreational or commercial fisher could have come by enough of the tetrodotoxin for a lethal does. The short, cropped hair on her fingers indicates a man, whose hair she'd touched, a brother, perhaps, more likely her ex-husband, after her new money…"

He lifted the hand of the woman to display a pale band of skin where her wedding ring had once been positioned.

"Surely even you lot can see that. Would have been simple enough to do. Knock her phone onto the floor, wait until she was under the table to pick it up and inject her. Plant extra syringes in her purse to explain away the puncture mark. Amateur. Anyway, find the owner of the hair, associated with fishing, I'd wager, and you've found your killer."

"Oh, go on then," said Lestrade, looking slightly dumbfounded from Sherlock's usual rant. "We'll have the results in by tomorrow morning."

Sherlock sighed heavily. He really had been expecting something slightly more challenging. Now he had to return home, bored out of his mind.

Even so, something was tugging at the edge of his senses, a nagging feeling he couldn't ignore; the unsettling sensation that something, somewhere was out of place.

* * *

_Everything seemed blurry, impossibly bright colours swirling together in a carousel of shining metallic greys and lolly-wrapper hues. John tried to pull himself up into a sitting position, but his head spun so badly he instantly lay back down._

"_Where am I?!" he tried to demand, but all that came out of his mouth was a garbled collection of motley syllables._

_He tried to scream for help, but his own voice continued to betray him. Desperately, he struggled against what he now recognised as a drug-induced haze. He tried again to call out for help, but his only comprehensible thought was that no one was likely to notice he was missing for days... He was alone, completely alone, and the concept threatened to choke him as the drugs pulled him under once more._

* * *

"Lestrade, it is precisely ten past five in the morning."

"I know what you're like, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson is constantly complaining that you're up at all hours of the morning."

"Irrelevant."

"I have some news, Sherlock, and you're not going to like it."

"Do you?"

There was a long pause. Sherlock let out a little puff of air in annoyance.

"Go on then, enlighten me."

"Well... we found a match for the hair you picked up in the restaurant last night."

"That's all very well and good, but I thought I made it perfectly clear that –"

"No, Sherlock, listen. The DNA… " Lestrade paused, his breathing sounding mechanical over the receiver. "the DNA from the hair matched up with a Dr. John Watson."

* * *

**_A/N:_ Thankyou so much for the follows, favourites and reviews! The notification emails made me so happy :D You are awesome :) ! ****Especially if you managed to read the entire deduction, yay you ! I think I got a little carried away with it... And it still wasn't as seamless as the TV versions... I'm working on it!**


	3. Collateral Damage and Adam West

A/ N: **Realised I forgot to tell you when this is set! it's pre-Baskerville, post-Belgravia. :)**

* * *

When John came around again, he opened his heavy eyelids to more darkness. It took him a few moments to realise what was happening – for a brief time he could almost imagine he was back in 221B, the drug-induced stupor only a dream. But as his senses awoke, it became more and more impossible for his theory to be grounded in reality. He could feel his hands tied behind his back with rough rope, the inky black that pervaded his vision revealing itself to be cloth, fastened securely around his eyes.

"Where am I?" he demanded, with no clue as to whether anyone could hear him. Static noise filled his ears.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, you're awake," replied a voice, if it could even be called that. It was too loud to be from a person, and had a mechanised edge- so much so it barely sounded human.

"Listen, just - what do you want with me?" asked John, "I swear to God, if someone confused me with Sherlock again…"

"Quite the contrary, John," commented the computer-mangled voice. "It is you who is necessary now."

"Me?" questioned John, his instincts telling him to keep the man, woman, machine – whatever it was- talking as he found away to get himself free. "Why?"

The speakers (or at least John assumed they were speakers), let out a noise that he supposed was a laugh, but which sounded more like someone dropping a frying pan.

"Because you're important, Doctor Watson. I've been watching the two of you for some time, and I've finally come to the conclusion that the key... is you."

Dread filled John's stomach, and he tried weakly, desperately, to undo the rope around his hands.

"The key to what?" he asked, after a long, crackling silence.

"The key to destroying Sherlock Holmes."

John let out a long breath, half-cursing the day he ever walked into Baker Street.

"So this _is_ about Sherlock."

"Of course, Doctor Watson. I have no business with you – you're a completely ordinary man. An important one, yes, but ordinary. I don't usually deal in ordinary men... I'm almost tempted to apologise."

"Apologise for all of this?"

John kept his voice level and calm, but inside he was simmering desperately with fear and anger. Another clashing laugh echoed throughout the room, setting his nerves on edge.

"Oh, no, Doctor Watson, never. I meant I was tempted to apologise for the fact that you're soon going to be… collateral damage. It's almost a shame."

"Collateral damage?!" exclaimed John, trying to struggle against the bonds, but his drug-worn body barely responded.

"Save your energy, doctor. There are enough chemicals in your system to keep you weak as a kitten for days."

A long silence stretched between them as lights danced before John's eyes. _Keep them talking_, he thought to himself. _Anything that could give you a clue to their identity._

"You know you've got it wrong," accused John, closing his eyes against the blindfold, "if you've been watching, you must know - he's a sociopath. He doesn't care about anyone. He doesn't care about anything except the work."

There was a sharp crack, as if the receiver had been thrown against a wall, before returning to the same radio silence.

"Are you familiar with the chemical concept of equilibrium, Doctor Watson?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I do know a thing or two about chemistry," replied John, trying to retain some sense of dignity. "I _did_ make it through medical school."

_Good,_ he thought, _if I can muster sarcasm, I can muster an escape plan_.

"Then let me make you aware of something. At present, you are in a laboratory – a sealed room. A vessel, if you will. Into this room, very slowly, quantities of vapourous sulphur tetrafluoride are being released. Eventually, the air already in here and the tetrafluoride will reach an equilibrium. It will have concentration enough to kill you after breathing it in for an hour. Who knows, could be less. With the rate that it's being released, by my calculations… you have three days, Doctor Watson."

John swore violently in response. The person on the other end of the speaker must have had a god complex or something, trapping him here like he was a villain from Adam West's _Batman_.

"This is ridiculous," was all John could muster, his voice shaking slightly.

The mechanical voice tutted, as if disappointed.

"I was hoping for something a _little_ more original from you, Doctor Watson. On the contrary, the design is quite clever. I don't even have to be here when you die – no evidence, not so much as a fingerprint that can be traced back to me."

"You're crazy."

"That's what's so fun about me, don't you think? That's what's used to be so fun about Sherlock." The voice let out a static sigh. "Until he-... " the voice paused in contemplation. "Maybe it's time for me to leave you alone with your thoughts, doctor."

More than anything, John did not want to be left alone. He decided to try a new approach.

"No, wait-"

"Yes, Doctor Watson?"

John pulled together his courage.

"There's still time to let me go - to get out of whatever trouble is coming for you. Sherlock will find you, you know. He finds everyone, in the end."

"My dear doctor, I am counting on it."

The static ceased, and John was once more completely alone.

* * *

**Sorry it's a little shorter than usual... I had planned something longer, but if I wrote everything that I had planned, it would have been too long and, well, hopefully my next update is not far away!**

**In case you were wondering, my villain isn't Moriarty. I played around with the idea but decided against it. But whether s/he is connected to Moriarty... That's a completely different question, don't you think? Ehehehe...**

**Thanks so much again for the follows and reviews. I can't express how high of a privilege it is to have people give feedback on my work - and how high a compliment when they tell me it's authentic. At the risk of writing an A/N longer than my fanfic, thankyou thankyou and thankyou ! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter!**

_On the Adam West reference - I watched an episode of Batman as a kid where threatens to turn Batman and Robin into giant icy poles... I kinda wanted to do something similar but without all the sugar. Lol. John and Sherlock sorta remind me of Batman and Robin, sometimes.. xD_


	4. Honour and Finnish Software

"_A_ Dr. John Watson?" repeated Sherlock into the phone, refusing to show incredulity in his voice. "As in _my _John Watson?"

"I'm afraid so, Sherlock."

"Impossible. I was talking to him two minutes ago."

"DNA records don't just _lie_, Sherlock. Was he even in the room?" replied Lestrade, sighing heavily. He honestly had no clue why any sane man would, or even could, live with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock bit his lip.

"Irrelevant."

"Yes, alright, but don't you want to-"

"Irrelevant!" interrupted Sherlock, his voice raised in a bout of uncharacteristic anger. He hung up the phone with a definite push, and threw it down onto the couch and started to pace back and forth.

"Think, think, think, think," he muttered to himself, leaning his face into his hands. "Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed.

"What is it, Sherlock?" asked the elderly lady as she walked up the stairs. "This better not be to do with cleaning – I'm not your housekeeper, you know!"

"John is missing," Sherlock told her abruptly, facing the other direction. "How long has he been gone?"

"Goodness, Sherlock, shouldn't _you_ know?" asked Mrs. Hudson. "I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon."

"Yesterday afternoon - excellent. Thank-you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Don't be worried, dear, I'm sure he's just popped out for-"

But she was already being shooed out of the flat, the door shut in her face a moment later. Tutting and murmuring about the impetuous nature of her tenants, Mrs. Hudson wandered back down the stairs.

Sherlock tried to silence the hundreds of thoughts that were running around his brain – that hair _had_ to belong to the killer. It was the only solution which took into account all of the evidence. He also knew John better than he knew most people – and the put-upon doctor most definitely did not have the capacity for cold blooded murder. His ideals were too deeply rooted in traditional values of honour and respect for that.

When you have eliminated out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. If John had not killed the woman, there were only three remaining possibilities: the failure of the DNA test, a prior connection between John and the woman, or that it was planted. If John had a connection with this woman, Sherlock would have known about it, and he couldn't formulate a motive for anyone framing him... Closing his yes, Sherlock did a quick calculation, formulating the most likely conclusion from the information he had.

'_DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.'_

His eyes snapped open with a start.

"And I bet you know the record-keeper," murmured Sherlock, grabbing his phone from the couch and dialing a number.

"Can't talk right now, gorgeous, I'm working," came the unusually breathless voice of Irene Adler after several rings. "But do let's have dinner sometime. It's been a while - not since Pakistan, I believe?"

"You are under the mistaken impression that I have any desire to see you."

"You wouldn't be calling me now if you didn't."

"It's strictly business."

"Darling, with you it always is. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to mine."

"London, Regency Café, five hours time."

"Mr. Holmes, I'm in Moscow."

"It's a four hour flight. I'll see you there," replied Sherlock, but Irene had already hung up the phone. He scowled at the screen in annoyance – he hated anyone beating him to cutting off the line.

* * *

"The records. How did you alter them?" he asked over an empty table.

"Hello to you too," replied Irene, walking in and folding her black-clad body up like a cat on the chair opposite him.

"If there is one thing I cannot tolerate today, it is your games, Miss Adler. Tell me- _how did you alter the DNA records_?" His voice was almost shaking in its intensity.

Irene sighed, disappointment washing over her face.

"Well this isn't going to be half as fun as I thought it was," replied Irene, "we've been through this before, Mr. Holmes. I know the record keeper. And what he likes. Well, I used to, before I died."

A slight tinge of regret washed over her features.

"And there are no other ways to alter them?"

Irene grinned sultrily, mulling over whether to tell him the next piece of information or not. In the end, she decided she had to. He had saved her life once, after all. After this, maybe she'd be able to consider it even.

"Actually, they've got a new system now," said Irene finally, "entirely computer-based, a new form of software developed in Finland, I think. Once the data is in - and it has to be entered from Finland, there's no way to alter it," she pouted slightly. " I don't think I'll be faking my own death again anytime soon."

Sherlock had to resist the urge to slam his fist down on the table in frustration.

"You're awfully angry about all of this, dear. Why do you need to know so badly?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just screwed his eyes closed, and tried to make sense of the jumble of ideas and images whirring behind his eyes. His thoughts were racing, recalling every detail of the last time he had seen his friend - shattered mug, birthday present, pointless email...

His concentration was snapped by the sudden, bell-like laughter of Irene.

"Oh, I was entirely wrong about this being boring," she remarked, a smile dancing in her voice.

Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"This is to do with John," she remarked. "My, my, my, no wonder you're so on edge. You travelled all that way to save _me_, and you don't even like me very much. He's gone, isn't he?," she paused, waiting for a reaction. "I'm surprised you even noticed."

"What do you know?" asked Sherlock, his voice level once again.

"Then again, I suppose you two are a pair," she continued, turning away her face and ignoring his question entirely. "He'd be pretty worried if _you_ were gone."

Sherlock leaned across the table and caught her gaze, inches from his own, forcing her to acknowledge his words. A Cheshire grin spread over her face once more.

"I know nothing at all, Mr. Holmes. This isn't my life anymore, remember? You made sure of that."

Again, Sherlock did not reply, only leaned back into his seat and pulled at his scarf gently. Irene once again sighed heavily in disappointment.

"As amusing as it would be to get involved in this," she said, "I really must go. I'm due in Bern tomorrow, and I hate to disappoint."

She got up to leave the table.

"_What do you know_?" repeated Sherlock, staring at her icily.

"Nothing," replied Irene, her eyes shining in glee. " But I'll give you a clue, if you like. I think you're asking the right question, but at entirely the wrong person."

She walked over to where he was sitting to whisper in his ear.

"What do _you_ know, Sherlock Holmes?"

And with a wink, she stalked out of the café, high heels clicking in her wake.

Sherlock knew she wasn't letting on everything, but then again, she never did. It would take time and an obscene amount of effort to get any solid information out of Irene Adler, and even then it might not be reliable.

It was time, concluded Sherlock, to pay another visit to the Seven Lanterns.

* * *

A/N: **I hope you liked this chapter! I couldn't resist bringing in Irene - I love the character too much not to have a go at writing her.**

**And so the plot thickens! Can you figure out why John's hair is on the body? The big factor that Sherlock's been missing? Although I think I've made it almost impossible to guess, unless you're Sherlock himself... :P**

**I can't thank you enough for all the follows and favourites I've been getting, it's been amazing, you guys** **rock****! Although I'm pretty greedy, always looking for more! Please let me know what you think of my story, I love getting your reviews! (: xx**


	5. Tablecloths and Declarations of Love

Sherlock stepped into the restaurant, a gust of cold air swirling around him. He pulled off his scarf in a swift, definitive motion and stalked over to the table which, only twenty-four hours ago, had been a crime scene.

Causing a shout of alarm from the couple eating their dinner as he delved under the tablecloth, Sherlock prodded at the ground, utilising all his senses to figure out something, anything, that could help him figure out the mistake in this murder.

"Argh!" shrieked a woman's voice, in the background. "There's a man, under our table!"

"Sorry," came the voice of a young waitress, "let me get the manager… I'm sorry… moushiwake arimasen…"

A few seconds later, Sherlock was dragged from under the table and into the kitchen by a short, wide Japanese chef and a middle-aged woman, who he quickly deduced was the manager of the restaurant, had recently been through a messy divorce and had a soft spot for classical music.

"Sir!" exclaimed the woman, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Crawling under the table," he replied. "I thought even someone as ordinary as you would be able to deduce that."

Miko laid a hand on her hip.

"And who exactly are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," he replied, pulling his scarf on once again. "I _was _continuing with a homicide investigation before you interrupted me, Ms…?"

"Takahashi. Miko Takahashi. If you're with the police, you can speak to me first. But I clearly remember them saying the case was all but solved, Mr. Holmes. So tell me the truth when I ask you, _what are you doing in my restaurant_?"

Sherlock said nothing, only raised his eyebrows at the lady. Boiling with rage, the chef stepped towards Sherlock. With an extension of one slender wrist, and a few sentences of rapid-fire Japanese, Miko stopped him in his tracks.

"Forgive him, Mr. Holmes," she said. "But we are all very… on edge after recent events."

Sherlock nodded, scanning his eyes over the room.

Noticing his actions, Miko asked; "Can I invite you into my office?"

"If you must."

She gave him the same shocked look he evoked in most people, the one that John had once explained to him meant he was being rude.

Leading him through the rich, exotic flavours of the kitchen, Ms. Takahashi opened her office door to Sherlock, inviting him to take a seat on the stylish black armchair pressed against the wall. She was just seating herself behind the desk when her telephone began to ring.

"By all means," nodded Sherlock, indicating the phone.

Inclining her head slightly, Miko reached for the phone and pressed it to her ear.

"Hello, The Seven Lanterns, Miko Takahashi speaking."

The voice on the other line garbled something almost incomprehensible.

"Yes," she replied, her mouth forming a tiny 'o' of surprise. "He's here right now." She blocked the mouthpiece with her hand. "Mr Holmes, it's for you."

She promptly strode out of the room, fear leeching into her dark, almond eyes.

"Hello?" asked Sherlock, as if he had been expecting a call the entire time.

"So, Mr. Holmes," replied the voice, garbled by some sort of changer, "I was wondering when you'd figure it out. I must say, so far you're not living up to expectations."

"Who is this?" asked Sherlock through gritted teeth.

"Someone who loves you," whispered the massacred voice breathily.

"Tell me your name."

"I may as well have just given it to you," replied the voice, "the great Sherlock Holmes, outwitted! I think you're losing your touch. Poor Doctor Watson..."

"What have you done with John?"

"Ah, so I have struck a nerve. Never fear, Doctor Watson is safe with me."

The voice paused, seeming to be contemplating something.

"Well, when I say safe, I mean in mortal danger. I want you to play with me, Sherlock, and this time we're following my rules. Doctor Watson's location is staring you in the face - the clue is with the woman, Mr. Holmes. And her alone."

"Whatever your problem is with me-"

But the voice had already gone. Sherlock slammed his fist against the desk in frustration, upsetting the range of neatly aligned stationery. He was just about to put down the phone when static once again cracked through the phone. He raised it once more to his ear in hope.

"Hello?" called a voice, angry and achingly familiar. "Is someone there?"

"John?" breathed Sherlock. "Listen to me very carefully: where are you? What can you see?"

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John, fighting to keep the terror out of his voice, "if you don't find me and I die here, I swear I will _kill_ you."

"Shut up, John, I don't know how much time we have. Tell me what you can see."

"I'm blindfolded, Sherlock. I have no idea where I am."

"Smells, textures, anything? This could be vital, John."

"It smells… like gas. But I've already been told about that. Whoever this guy is he's…. he's pumping sulphur tetrafluoride into the room."

"Are you alright?"

"It's not restricting my breathing yet. This weird computer-voice thing told me I have two more days before the levels become lethal."

"The same one that just spoke to me, I presume…"

"You have to get me out of here," begged John.

"I will. I'm coming. All I need to do is solve this deliciously _intricate_ case…"

"Sherlock!"

"Our kidnapper gave rather a lot away in the conversation. In telling me the clue is with the woman _alone_ – it's almost too easy, John."

There was a long silence.

"Aren't you going to ask me why?"

John gave an exasperated sigh.

"Why, Sherlock?"

"Because of the location, John! Location, location, location is everything! If the clue was in the murder, the deed, it would be with more than just the body – the circumstances, the floor around her, the time of death… Oh, this is _wonderful_!"

"I can't believe this is happening," replied John, his voice dead flat, a monotone.

"Mm?" questioned Sherlock.

"In case you haven't figured it out yet, Sherlock, I am currently tied up in a room which is slowly filling with poisonous gas, by some psychopathic, robot-voiced lunatic, and you're trying to make yourself _feel intelligent_?!"

His voice voice peaked over the phone, echoing in the empty space around him.

"John, I-"

But the phone line had already cut.

* * *

**Woo, look how quick my update was! I can't help it, I'm addicted to reviews from you lovely people**. **I think they make me write faster. **_(hint, hint.)_

**Thankyou so much for taking the time to read this :)**


	6. Security Footage and Adrenaline

His voice trailing off as he put down the phone, Sherlock tried to once more put his mind towards the case. Why did it feel so different? His own emotions –horrible, tiresome things - were betraying him. A sense of worry for his friend continued to build and build exponentially with time. He was so desperate to solve the case, it was beginning to cloud his ability to think. Walking over to the window, he closed his eyes and tried to enter his mind palace, to search through the rooms of information, of dates and names and knowledge.

But as he approached the shining front gates, no matter how hard he tried, they would not open. Cursing under his breath, he called Miko Takahashi back into the room in an attempt to kick his brain back into gear.

"Miss Takahashi," he addressed her.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" she replied. Sherlock walked up to her small frame, looking down and studying her face with all the concentration he could muster.

"The murder was not committed in your restaurant."

Her eyes narrowed and her left pinky shook slightly, giving Sherlock all the answers he needed.

"And you were in on it."

"I had no choice," replied Miko, turning away from his gaze. "He threatened to kill my children. They may not live with me anymore, but I still love them."

"And who was he?"

"Why should I tell you?"

Sherlock lowered his voice.

"Because, Miss Takahashi, I am the only person on this planet who has the power to keep you out of jail and your restaurant a functioning business so I suggest you inform me _right now_; who was the real killer?"

"I don't know," replied Miko, running a hand through her thick, black hair. "I received an anonymous phone call, the voice sounded like the one you were just talking to. I wasn't even out here when the body was planted – we were ordered to empty the restaurant completely."

"Show me the footage," replied Sherlock.

"Footage?" asked Miko innocently. "Of course, the voice asked for the security cameras to be switched off as well."

"But you left them running and then burned them to your laptop," countered Sherlock, indicating a disk in the corner of the room. "So stop lying to me and _show me the footage_."

Miko Takahashi looked shocked, but made no move towards the disk or her computer. Sighing in exasperation, he sat down behind it. Her password was the name of one of her children, doubtlessly. His eyes flicked to the birth certificate so proudly pinned to the wall – Masumi Takahashi. Typing it in quickly, he was surprised when the computer did not unlock. Biting his lip, he pulled out his phone and made a quick google search, before switching the keyboard to Japanese and typing in the name again, in Hiragana.

_Welcome Miko…_

Quickly locating the files, Sherlock played the security footage from the time of the body being planted. A bewildered-looking teenager walked into the room, carting a large box on a sack truck. His face was coated in angry red acne, and he looked around the room in complete surprise, before heading out to the kitchen to look for management staff.

"He called me here," said Miko. "Asking if there was anyone in, where he should leave the package. I told him under the table, as instructed. I had my head chef deal with the body itself…" she gagged a little at the memory. "That poor, wretched woman."

"Irrelevant," muttered Sherlock, his eyes fixated on the screen. Eventually, the boy came back into the main restaurant area and slid the box under the table before walking out of the room, looking thoroughly perplexed by the night's events.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" asked Miko.

"Quite," replied Sherlock, taking a deep breath. "The delivery boy is familiar to me- I observed him delivering a package to the neighbouring block of flats just last week, therefore he likely lives and delivers in the same general area of London as Baker Street and this restaurant. He was young, acne-ridden and showed characteristics of surprise, indicating that he's a gaming addict with a soft spot for science fiction movies more than the possession of the ability to commit cold-blooded murder. Not directly involved in the murder, then, so what's the connecting factor? The common denominator? Location. If the killer is playing a game with me –which I assume he is – it follows the location of the woman's real death is also the location of my kidnapped assistant."

"People," he sighed, "are so very predictable."

* * *

"You were wrong, Doctor Watson," buzzed the speakers again.

John woke with a start, his drug-inflamed limbs moving slightly more easily than they had yesterday. His eyes had adjusted to the black of the blindfold, and could almost make out some dim shapes behind it.

"He's terrified for you."

"You obviously weren't listening to our conversation this morning," replied John, with bravado so false the mechanical voice offered one of its screech-laughs.

"I'd be scared if I were you, too, Doctor Watson."

And the voice cut out. Alone, stinking, and stripped of all his dignity, John has never felt so uncomfortable. Breathing was becoming slightly sore in his chest, the first signs of the tetrafluroide taking effect. In his time as a soldier, he had been in the midst of war, even had a bomb strapped to him under the orders of Moriarty, but never before had it been or felt like this. The slow, torturous waiting, wondering, suffering. The adrenaline rush of battle, of a case, was the chemical he thrived on- needed, even - but he could not take very much more of what was happening to him here.

_Sherlock_, he thought, _where the hell are you?_

* * *

**Over halfway through my story now... :)  
**_  
_**Please let me know what you think of it!**


	7. Summer Dresses and CCTV

A/N: **A quick thankyou to everyone who has reviewed or followed or favourited! You guys rock, and are the reason I keep writing this little story :)**

**Special thanks to the reviewers, (especially the lovely long one from OhTheYak, here's some Molly_ and_ Mycroft, just for you!)  
**

* * *

Now that Sherlock had some idea _where_ to find John, other, slightly more interesting questions rose to the front of his mind.

Who? And how?

John was a trained military officer, which significantly decreased the amount of people with the physical ability to kidnap him. Take into account the fact he was in a public place, and it was obvious he was tricked into accompanying the kidnapper willingly. But who? Who could convince John to just leave with them?

Sherlock's first thought was an attractive woman – all she would have had to do was bat her eyelashes and his friend would follow her anywhere. But he was almost entirely sure the voice on the phone was male - and the woman would have told him if someone had been hired. Pulling out his phone, he dialled his brother's latest phone number.

"Mycroft, I need you to-"

"Not now, brother. I am in the middle of an extremely important meeting."

"Mycroft," said Sherlock, taking a deep breath, "I need your help."

There was silence over the phone line for a long second. Mycroft knew something was very amiss when proud, self-sufficient Sherlock actively sought his help.

"What it is that's so drastically wrong, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft. "– excuse me, gentlemen."

"It's John. He's gone."

"Gone?"

"Aren't you listening?! Yes, gone. He's been kidnapped. And I need you to hack his text records."

"Brother, you could quite easily do that yourself."

"Yes, but not without detection, followed by a very lengthy process I would prefer to avoid. Time is rather of the essence here."

"And here I was thinking you might be warming up to me."

"Just get the files, Mycroft."

"Alright, I'll call you back in twenty minutes. I really must finish this meeting."

Mycroft cut the line, and Sherlock went outside to catch a cab back to the apartment. He hailed one quickly and climbed into the back seat, giving the driver the address of his apartment. He tried to piece things together as they drove, to figure out a way of discovering the mystery location…

"Change of plans, take me to the mortuary," he told the cabbie.

"Right-o, sir."

* * *

The mortuary was cold as Sherlock entered the waiting room. Most people seemed to find its atmosphere melancholy, even eerie, but to Sherlock it was strangely comforting. After all, unlike their living counterparts, corpses didn't lie.

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock to the receptionist behind the desk, by way of greeting.

"Excuse me,"he replied indignantly, "do you have an invitation?"

"I'm here on behalf of the police," said Sherlock. "I need to examine a body. I'm here quite often, you don't recognise me?"

"I'm new here. Do you have a badge?" asked the receptionist.

"No, I'm a consulting detect-"

The disbelieving expression on the face of the receptionist was enough to cut him off. Sighing in annoyance, Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

_ Calling, Molly Hooper_

"Molly, come and let me in. Some imbecile-" he punctuated this with a glared at the receptionist "-is keeping me out of the morgue."

"Oh, Sherlock, hi! Um, I'm actually not at work at the moment, I'm-"

"Just open the doors for me."

"Actually Sherlock, I'm on a-" Molly paused. "You know what, it's fine. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Thankyou, Molly."

_Call Ended_

He scrolled through his (rather short) list of contacts, and pressed a button.

_ Calling, DI Lestrade_

"Detective Inspector, I need her shoes."

"I'm sorry, you… what? Who? Sherlock, is that you?"

"Who else would it be? Haven't you ever heard of call ID? The woman who died, Lestrade! In the Japanese restaurant. I need her shoes."

"Oh, right, Nina Bays. What do you need her shoes for? They're in forensics."

"It's important, Lestrade, just get them sent to the flat as soon as possible."

"You better be onto something, Holmes."

"I'm quite confident," replied Sherlock.

_Call Ended_

It wasn't much longer before Molly arrived, wearing a colourful summer dress and evidently just come in from a lunch date.

"Sorry Brad," she said to the receptionist, smiling. "He's with me. We're running some extra tests for the forensics department at Scotland Yard."

"I suppose that's okay then," replied the receptionist, giving her a quick grin. "Go on in. You and… Mr. Holmes."

Molly tried to say something to Sherlock, but he stalked quickly through the doors as soon as Brad opened them.

"Nina Bays, Molly. I need the body of Nina Bays."

"Er, alright. I'll um, find her for you. How are you, by the way?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Molly, although social conventions may dictate _chitchat_, I am perfectly comfortable with you just finding the body. Quickly."

"Right," replied Molly, slipping on a lab coat. "Sorry."

She sorted through the trays of corpses before pulling out the body of the murdered woman and rolling back the sheet.

"Is this her?"

"Yes. Now go away."

"I- I'm sorry?"

"I need to think. You might say something."

"Right. Um, sorry for interrupting you. I'll see you later?" She asked hopefully.

But Sherlock just shooed her out of the room, his eyes locking on the body and comparing it to the photographs that were taken at the restaurant. Her lips were puffed up, indicating recent plastic surgery – now that she'd come into money, why not? The treatment was obviously recent, the day of the murder, most likely, and she'd have need to have it done in an upper-class neighbourhood. There were no cosmetologists in the poorer areas of London. It was unlikely she was still in that neighbourhood when the murder occurred- her lips looked at least a few hours old in the image, and having only recently acquired wealth, didn't feel comfortable in posh areas. Once he checked her shoes, Sherlock could narrow it down to…

His phone rang loudly, echoing in the room and disrupting his train of thought.

"Yes?!" he answered, rather angrily.

"Hello to you too, Sherlock," replied Mycroft.

"What did you find?"

"The last text he received was from a prepaid mobile, the message reading: it's important, John. M – impersonating myself, I presume."

"So he receives a text he thinks is from you, gets into a car and is driven… where? Have you checked CCTV?"

"Of course, but there's not much to be seen. He simply pulls away until he's out of the camera's range. There are too many cameras and too much traffic around London to follow the car's route properly."

"Obviously."

"Worry not, brother. I'm sure you will find your lost doctor. You always do."

"Mycroft, I do not _worry_."

"We Holmes' may not be particularly prone to sentiment, but neither are we utterly devoid of emotion," replied his brother, sighing.

"Goodbye, Mycroft. I do not require any more of your… _assistance_."

Sherlock mulled over the new information. So the killer had been watching them for some time, therefore was someone himself and John had known well, or who lived in their area, or who frequently attended crime scenes. One of the three must have been true, as they possessed information about the way Mycroft contacted them. That narrowed down the list considerably, but there was still no-one probable Sherlock could conceive as the perpetrator of this crime.

Calling an absent-minded goodbye to Molly, he wandered back onto the street to find a cab. Sherlock needed to get back to 221B.

* * *

**I can't believe the responses I've been getting for this - it's truly astounding. Keep it coming guys, reviews make me super happy!** _(and write faster...)_

**Also, thanks to a PM I recieved, I will be expanding on some of the fine details of John's situation- you'll be seeing some of the effects of this in chapter eight!  
**

******Thanks again for reading! xx**


	8. Water and Improbability

John wrenched his eyes open painfully from another bout of fitful dozing. He didn't know if it was night or day, if he'd been sleeping for an hour or a minute.

_Enough_, he told himself. If Sherlock didn't get there in time to do anything… Well, John wasn't about to let himself sit and suffocate to death. _Information is key_, he thought. If there was one thing he had learnt from his cases with Sherlock, it was that the right information could get you into or out of any situation. All he had to do was think like Sherlock.

'_You know my methods. Apply them.'_

His inner Sherlock-voice popped up at the thought of his name. What would Sherlock do in this situation? Deduce his way out of it, of course. Maybe John should try that.

_Let's start with my senses,_ he thought. _I can't see anything, but what can I smell, taste, hear and touch?_

He sniffed deeply. He could smell gas, and the dreadful stench of a man left on his own with no facilities for two days. He bit his lip in humiliation and continued to breathe through his mouth. He could taste nothing in particular in the air, only the slightly bitter twang of the tetrafluoride.

Distantly, a door clicked open, then slid shut again. A second door then opened, and a person walked into the room with him. This had happened twice now – once a day, was John's guess. The person would walk in, insert a straw into John's mouth and provide him with water. He would then stand there until he drank it – any length of time – as John had discovered after not sipping for five hours the previous day. If this was the third time it was happening, that meant that…. It meant that if the voice's calculations were right, he had less than twenty-four hours left.

"Drink up, Doctor Watson."

John almost jumped in surprise. The mechanical voice was back. He gulped down the water quickly in the hope of conversation with his captor.

"Yes, thanks for that," he replied. "Any chance you'll let me go now?"

He tried to sound confident, but his voice came out a painful wheeze.

"Dear me, Doctor," replied the voice, "you don't sound so good."

"If I'm dying anyway," spluttered John, "you could at least tell me who you are."

The voice seemed to ignore his question.

"Sherlock Holmes once said that when you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. In this sense, Doctor Watson, I am the truth."

The voice left it hanging in the room for a while, seeming rather pleased with itself, as if expecting John to come up with something. After almost a full minute of silence, the voice spoke again.

"Oh come on Doctor, I've made it so _obvious_. Tell me you've got something."

"That you're the truth? That doesn't mean anything."

"You have to be a little more literal than that."

John pondered the phrase again. _When you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_. So, in the phrase, what was the truth? Very unlikely?

No, he had to think literally. In the phrase, the truth was improbable. In Sherlock's own words, improbable. Where had he seen that before? Someone improbable.

"Oh," he said out loud, his lungs paying the price for it. "You're improbable. The the improbable one. From my blog."

"Very good," replied the voice sarcastically. "You're _quite_ the budding detective, aren't you? It's not as if I had to spell it out for you or anything. Ugh, I will never know why you're his assistant."

John remained silent, allowing his lungs to recover.

"Well, I must be off. Thankyou for alleviating my boredom, Doctor Watson."

The speakers cut, and the man with the water exited the room. John started to struggle violently, anything to be out of this horrible room. After ten minutes of blind panic, he forced his mind back under his own control and took several deep breaths.

_Senses_, he thought, _I was up to hearing_.

In all his time there, John could only ever remember hearing was the occasional, distant sound of a car horn or the screech of tyres, footsteps, the doors, and the commentary of the mechanical voice. From that, all he could deduce was he was somewhere near, but not too near, a road. That definitely narrowed it down.

He sighed. As hard as he tried, he could not be Sherlock, or make those same leaps in logic. Why wasn't he here yet? For all his intellect, he couldn't even... John stopped the thought process in its tracks. He may as well try the final sense.

John was sitting down, his hands behind his back, fastened with what felt like handcuffs. His legs were bound to metallic objects, which he assumed were the legs of a chair. He could move his hands a little, left and right, but he did not have the strength to move the entire chair. Merely trying sapped at his valuable energy.

He squeezed his eyes shut and thought. How could he get this new information to Sherlock? It could help him find John, or if not, at least help him find John's killer. He shuddered at the thought. Normally, he could just call the consulting detective, but he had nothing to call him with.

Or did he? After all, his mobile _had_ been in his pocket.

Twenty minutes later, the phone was securely in John's hand. Painstakingly, he slid it open, and typed in what he hoped was Sherlock's number. It was behind his back, after all. But as he pressed the call button, nothing happened. Sighing in frustration, he felt for the power switch, held it down, and tried again. It rang, and was answered, but the tiny voice emanating from the phone, the one he had to strain his ears to hear, was female. Wrong number. Again, he tried to visualise the numbers in his head, to guess where they would be flipped upside down and back to front.

Half an hour of trying later, a tiny, deep voice answered the phone.

"John?!"

"Sherlock!" replied John, speaking as loudly as he could so his voice could be heard. "I can't hear you very well, so…"

Something very fast and garbled came out of the phone.

"No, shut up, I can't tell what you're saying. The person who's got me here, he's the same as the improbable one, on my blog." John's lungs began to scream at the exertion of shouting, and he coughed violently." I… I can't talk for much longer. The poison's taking effect. You have to hurry, Sherlock, please…"

The plaintive note was obvious even to him.

"Nicely done, Doctor," came the mechanical voice, making John start and drop the phone. He swore under his breath. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to figure out it was still there."

The crackle from the speakers cut off, and the only noise penetrating the silence was the soft garble of John's phone, his friend still on the other line.

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**Hope you enjoyed! Please tell me what you thought of it via review! :)**


	9. Sheep and Deserted Science Wings

Sherlock continued yelling into the phone for several minutes before he realised the pointlessness of it all. John could not hear him, and even if he could, Sherlock couldn't hear John, either. He stormed up the stairs as fast as he could, before logging on to his laptop and searching through the comments of the improbable one.

_ capital letters are just one of society's conventions that I choose to ignore. you've just been programmed to be one of society. you're a sheep..  
__**theimprobableone **__07 February 15:46_

Sherlock studied the words in detail, pondering their meaning and making several more deductions about the identity of the captor.

"Sherlock!" called Mrs. Hudson from downstairs, "there's something here for you!"

"Bring it up!" bellowed Sherlock, slightly annoyed that his thinking had been interrupted.

"I'm not your housekeeper!" called back Mrs. Hudson, but made her way up the stairs anyway. "My goodness, look at this mess! This is the worst I've seen your flat in months, young man!"

"Just give me the parcel," replied Sherlock.

"Right, here you go dear," replied Mrs. Hudson, handing over the package and picking up one of John's old jumpers off the floor. "Where's John? I haven't seen him around in a couple of days."

Sherlock contemplated telling her the truth, but the only result he could see it having was worrying the elderly lady, so he decided against it.

"He's out."

Sherlock ripped open the package and pulled out a pair of black women's shoes with a slight heel. Grimacing and reaching for his mobile phone, Sherlock once again dialed Lestrade's number.

"Sherlock, hi," greeted the Detective Inspector.

"Lestrade, I need you to try and trace a call."

"Sherlock, you can't just keep asking me these things without giving me a reason – it was hard enough to get you the shoes –"

"It's important. Just do it."

"Not until I get some answers, Sherlock. Tell me what's going on here."

This was a waste of his precious time.

"Nina Bays was murdered by the same man who has captured John, and is currently keeping him in a secure facility whilst increasing the concentration of a poisonous gas that will kill him if I don't find him by the end of the day. The culprit has left me several clues as to his identity and John's whereabouts, which I have deduced to be the location of Ms. Bay's true murder. John managed to call me less than half an hour ago, and I need you to trace the location of his phone so I can find him as soon as possible. It is highly likely the culprit has rendered this impossible, but I also get the feeling he wants to be caught, therefore it is imperative to the safety of John and the solution of this case that I make sure all aspects of it have been covered. Now, is that enough of a _reason_ for you, Lestrade?!"

"Woah," replied Lestrade. "Right, I'm on it. Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Why would I?" asked Sherlock, confused. "I am perfectly capable of solving this puzzle without the hindrance of your department."

"Yes," replied Lestrade, sighing heavily, "but he's my friend too, you know."

Sherlock remained silent for a few seconds before cutting off the line. He turned around to see a white-faced Mrs. Hudson, her mouth covered with her hand.

"Is it true?" she half-whispered. "Is John…?"

"Go have some tea or something," he told her, trying to hurry her out of the room. 'It doesn't matter!"

"Sherlock Holmes!" cried Mrs. Hudson, her voice rising in anger. "How can you say that?! That man is the best thing that has happened to you in a very long while! Not many people could put up with sharing a flat with you, you know, so if you could stop acting like a school child for one mo-"

Mrs. Hudson stopped in her tracks as Sherlock's expression changed, a joyful grin spreading over his face.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, you are a _genius_!" he exclaimed, kissing her on the head and shaking her shoulders gently. "Why didn't I think of that?!"

"What are you talking about, dear? I was only getting angry because –"

"Oh yes yes, never mind that now," said Sherlock. "Leave me in peace. I need to be able to think."

Mrs Hudson gave a small, knowing sigh and walked out of the room, her brow furrowed with worry.

Nina Bays used to be a _schoolteacher_. Not a high-paying job, which explained the living conditions prior to the money – it had said as much on her file. The particular nature of John's entrapment would require a sealed vessel – laboratory conditions. Laboratories could generally be found in hospitals, scientific institutions and _schools_. It was perfect timing, all the children were on holidays. The school itself would need to be a high-end one, with a focus on science to have the necessary equipment available…

One google search later, and Sherlock had five possible schools in the London area, three of which the murdered woman had taught at, ranked from most to least likely. The first was private, a very upmarket college which had recently invested 8 million dollars in a new laboratory. Running down the stairs and practically leaping into a cab, Sherlock was at the school in less than half an hour. Demonstrating some very impressive (and highly illegal) breaking and entering skills, he was soon combing the deserted science wing in a quest for evidence. However, the more he searched, the more convinced he became that he was not in the right place. There was not a single sign that indicated the presence of his friend.

Slightly disheartened, he climbed into another cab and gave the driver the address of the second school.

"You sure about that, mate? It's a two and a half hour drive."

"Yes, I'm-"

He responded automatically, but stopped midway through his sentence. Every hour he spent searching, was another hour closer John was to suffocation, and the doctor sounded as if he was fading fast over the phone. Reluctantly, Sherlock texted the address of the third school to Lestrade, ordering him to search it. He would rather have done it himself, and not have the police mess up the crime scene, but with John dying, he didn't have a lot of options.

Two and a half hours later, he was at the front gates of the second, government-funded school for highly gifted students. Making his way into the science wing, he followed slight, promising scuff marks down to the end of the corridor, marked by an elevator. Stepping carefully inside, Sherlock sent it to the ground floor, listening intently as the lift descended and finally ground to a halt, the doors opening in front of him with a soft click.

He could hardly believe his eyes.

* * *

**Yaah, a cliffhanger! Please don't kill me!**

**So, I'm estimating two more chapters after this, and possibly an epilogue if I get some requests for one. Once again, thankyou thankyou thankyou for reading, and please leave a review! You're all amazing :)**


	10. Levers and Lies

There was nothing there.

Nothing but a plain white wall, smooth and shiny under the bright fluorescent lights. It took a few moments for Sherlock's eyes to adjust and clearly make out the dazzling, empty scene in front of him. Puzzled, he furrowed his brow and ran his hands along the wall, searching for some kind of switch or button.

"Aha!" he yelled, pulling the small lever he'd found, and watching the wall panel slide away. Stepping inside the second room, he was forced to cover his face with his scarf, as almost immediately his skin began to tingle and breathing became more painful. Whichever gas it was was completely colourless, so he sniffed in sharply, regretting it a moment later as his nose started to run.

"Corrosive, smells like - sulphur dioxide.. Bleh, definitely tetrafluoride," he muttered to himself.

"John!" he yelled, peering through the gap between the two ends of his scarf to seek out his friend, but no reply came back. The small room he was standing in, again, seemed completely empty. Sherlock looked around in desperation, before realising poison gas would need at least two chambers to prevent it escaping.

He pulled the scarf off of his face and felt for the lever, his eyes watering slightly.

If the concentration of tetrafluoride felt as uncomfortable as it did here, it would be a lot worse in the next room. Reason told Sherlock he should call Lestrade immediately, and wait for the police to come with gas masks. He was risking serious injury to go in there alone, especially when there was a high chance he was too late and John was already…

'_Sherlock, run!'_

The words echoed strangely in his mind. Why would they resurface now?

'_Your sniper... Pull that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, and we both go up.'_

Closing his eyes, Sherlock continued to search desperately. When he finally found the lever, he pulled it without hesitation and covered his face once more.

"John!" called Sherlock again as the doors opened, "John, are you alright?!"

There was a strange, inhuman moaning noise from the front of the classroom in response. Sherlock ran to the source of it, his coat billowing out behind him in flowing waves.

"John?" he asked, pulling the scarf off of his eyes and checking the identity of the man in front of him.

"Mmm," replied John, and struggled to say something else, but it was incomprehensible.

"Don't try and talk," said Sherlock, water running down his face in large quantities. An effect of the tetrafluoride, naturally, Sherlock assured himself.

"I'll get you out of here, I promise."

Through his stinging eyes, he evaluated John's situation. His legs were tied with cloth, his hands secured with cuffs and a blindfold over his eyes. The blindfold, at least, was protecting the man from the worst of the tetrafluoride. Grateful that he'd left the first door open, Sherlock untied one of John's feet.

John once again tried to say something.

"You are breathing in a highly corrosive chemical, John," Sherlock told him as he untied his second foot, "it's utter stupidity to do anything that will increase your intake of it, so do yourself a favour and _shut up_."

Dimly, through the pain, John was able to register that Sherlock was being a prick again.

"This is going to be painful," warned Sherlock, before grabbing John's bound hands and twisting them as far up as they would go. John winced, but nothing more.

"Stand," Sherlock commanded, with all his usual bravado. Recognising this, John pulled himself slowly, shakily to his feet and free of the chair.

"Can you walk by yourself?" asked Sherlock.

"I-I'm blindfolded," wheezed John softly. "Can't.. see a thing."

Feebly, he tried to lift his hands to his eyes.

"What did I tell you about talking?!" exclaimed Sherlock, ignoring the burning pain beginning to build in his own lungs.

He placed both his hands on John's shoulders and started to guide the other man out of the laboratory, into the less painful outer chamber and finally, into the room containing the elevator. Sherlock closed the panel as soon as they were through, and began to gulp in huge lungfuls of the less contaminated air.

"That's better," he muttered, focusing his attention back on his friend, who was barely able to stand. Getting him back up to the ground level was going to be a difficult task if John still couldn't walk.

"I'm going to take off your blindfold," said Sherlock, gently prying the fabric away from the other man's eyes.

Almost immediately, John began to scream in anguish, the bright light burning his eyes and pouring painfully into his mind after so many hours in darkness. He squeezed them shut hard and fell to his knees, his hands struggling pitifully to reach his eyes.

"Okay, bad idea," said Sherlock, taking a deep breath "I'm sorry."

If John was capable of any sort of coherence just then, he might have fainted with surprise.

Sherlock removed his own scarf and tied it securely around his friend's eyes before telling him to open them again. The minute holes in the fabric would give John enough vision to navigate without crashing into anything big, but would filter out the harsh light around them. Realising John was not in any state to move on his own, Sherlock half-hauled his friend up from his knees, supporting his bodyweight, and dragged him over to the elevator, a barely-conscious John doing the best he could to help.

"You need to get to a hospital," Sherlock told John softly.

Pulling out his mobile, he sent a quick text to Lestrade before calling St. Bart's emergency number and demanding an ambulance. As the elevator doors clicked open, Sherlock painstakingly dragged John out of the elevator and propped him up against a wall. The doctor sagged uncomfortably against it, his hands still bound. Sherlock stood up to leave, but John was speaking again.

"Don't go," he coughed violently, the movement shaking his entire body, "please, don't leave me to die alone… That would- that would be just like you. I can't… I can't die by myself. Not like this- I want to live..."

"Don't be ridiculous, John, you're going to be fine," said Sherlock, bringing his face down to eye level with John's.

"Do you promise me?" asked John.

"I promise," replied Sherlock, looking away as he spoke.

"Don't lie to me," replied John, hacking again, "I can tell when you're lying and-and-I-" another fit of horrible, thick, coughs racked his chest.

"John…" began Sherlock, but he trailed off, taking another line of thought. "Shut up."

Too weak to provide any more protest, John sagged against the wall, defeated.

Sherlock was loath to leave him alone like that, but he needed to find something to get rid of the handcuffs with. By the time he'd found some wire in the form of a paperclip and rid John of his bonds, the ambulance had arrived. The paramedics quickly hooked him up to several machines, oxygen and smeared a strange ointment all over John's red, damaged skin. Before they loaded him into the back of the vehicle, Sherlock walked up to his stretcher to see if John looked any better for the medical attention.

"You better be right, you know," murmured John when he saw Sherlock, pulling off the oxygen mask. His eyes half-closed behind the scarf.

"I'm always right," Sherlock assured him, pausing for a long moment. "I'm just happy I don't have to be the one to ride in the car back with you, to be honest, Watson."

"Why?" asked John, in a lot of pain and slightly offended.

"You smell _awful_."

And just before the ambulance whisked him away in a flurry of light and sound, Sherlock could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile on his friend's face.

* * *

**Again, thankyou for reading! Only one more chapter to go... and the captor's true identity will finally be revealed! Have you guessed who it is yet?**

**Please let me know what you've thought of my fic so far! I love love love love hearing from you all :) x**


	11. Taxis and Tea

**A/N: So... it only took me a few months to get this last chapter up :P  
****I know, I know, I'm a terrible person.****  
****Anyway, thankyou so so much for everyone who read (or will read) and reviewed this story, and I hope the ending is everything you hoped it would be. Thanks to you, it's been amazingly fun to write! You guys are the best :D**

* * *

Before the police had a chance to question him, Sherlock was in the back of yet another cab.

"Think _harder_," he murmured to himself, earning him an odd look from the driver. The killer had given him clues every step of the way, hidden away in a turn of phrase, in a detail only Sherlock would pick up.

Tapping his feet anxiously, Sherlock closed his eyes and went back through his memories, pausing and rewinding as though they were a video. People around the scene of the crime, the way the voice talked, the school…

_The school._

"No!" exclaimed Sherlock, "no, no, no, no!"

"'Scuse me?" asked the driver. "Where is it you wanted to go again?"

"Oh, that's _highly_ improbable! But I could have done it, I suppose, if I'd been so inclined…"

"Sorry?" interrupted the cabbie again. "Look, if you're not gonna tell me where you're going, you can get out."

"Oh, I know exactly where I'm going," replied Sherlock, pulling out his phone. "I'll have an address for you soon enough but first… the post office."

"Sorry, _the_ post office? Which one?"

"Closest you can find to Baker Street."

* * *

In his six years of driving, never had Timothy Dreggle seen such an agitated man. He wriggled and huffed in the back seat, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again in turn, muttering under his breath at an impressive rate. When they finally reached the post office, he barked a short order to wait in the empty carpark and jumped out of the cab.

Never mind that it was by now four in the morning.

The tall, pale man sat by the post office for the remaining hours of the night, waiting impatiently for it to open, presumably. Before he knew it, Timothy was asleep at the wheel, waiting in vain for his customer to return.

He awoke at nine-fifteen to the sound of a rattling door.

"Come on, come on, we need to go!" exclaimed the strange man, running a hand through his curly hair with a huge grin on his face. "I've got him now! The game is reaching its final stages."

"Wha… what are you talking about, mate?" asked Timothy, unlocking the doors so the man could climb back inside. "You're bloody lucky I'm desperate – you just asked me to wait _five hours_ for you!"

"Yes, yes, I'll pay you whatever you want. I've got someone to see, places to be… Here's the address. Now shut up while I _think_. Approaching him… I'll have to be careful."

Sighing and rubbing his eyes, Timothy turned the key in the ignition.

* * *

Sherlock waved the cab off into the distance before walking up to the tall apartment building in front of him and ringing the bell.

"Hello?" crackled back a older, female voice.

"Hello, yes, I need to speak with your son," replied Sherlock.

"My son? Why?"

"It's to do with the recent death of his biology teacher… I'll only need a few minutes."

"I… alright, you can come up."

Sherlock walked into the building without any further ado, half-running up the staircase and banging on the apartment door.

"He's in his-" began the mother, but Sherlock had already gone through the kitchen and into the hallway, searching for the right room. Three doors later, he had the right one.

"Who the hell are you?!"

The teenager inside sounded terrified, bewildered.

"Oh, you can drop the act," snarled Sherlock, walking up to where the youth was sitting on his desk chair. "Ryan Cooper."

His face dropped to a calm mask in a second.

"So you found me," he said, smiling slightly as he looked up into Sherlock's face. "I was wondering if you would."

"Then tell me," breathed Sherlock, "now I know who you are, and what you've done… What's to stop me from killing you right here and now?"

"Because I'm like you," replied Ryan. "I made things interesting again. I know what it's like, being trapped in this ordinary, _ordinary _place with nothing to do and nowhere to be."

"So you had your teacher killed? Kidnapped my friend? Because you thought we were the _same_?"

"I wanted to see if I could beat you at your own game. And I could have, too, if I hadn't given you all those clues From the star wars reference to _physically putting my face on camera_. Come on, wasn't it all disgustingly _obvious_?"

"Of course, in the end. Hiding in plain sight, and only eighteen years old... But you've missed one tiny detail, one gapingly huge point. _You took my friend_. The one person I…." Sherlock trailed off, changing tact. "Did you really think we were the _same_? You are nothing like me. You are merely ordinary, no matter what you like to tell yourself. You are _nothing_. But that doesn't mean I won't deal with you."

"Well, you see, I rather think you won't," replied the teenager. "Because…"

He hit a button on the computer he was sitting behind, and seconds later, the woman from the intercom walked into the room, pressing what felt like a gun to the back of Sherlock's head.

"Because you thought I would assume this woman was your mother?" began Sherlock, "Despite the fact she let me in without knowing who I was, the difference in face structure, eye colour and quite frankly, the fact that she's wearing cufflinks? Her posture suggests military, but her hair's long, so she's been off duty for quite some time, or should I say… expelled from service? She must be expensive."

"That's all very impressive," replied Ryan, "but I'm afraid it's not going to change the fact that you're about to die."

He laughed manically, as if imitating a villain in a movie.

"Really?" replied Sherlock, raising his eyebrows. "Because I knew all those things the second I walked in. It was a simple matter of searching the flat, finding the gun and…"

There was a soft clicking noise as the woman pulled the trigger.

"… disarming it."

For the first time, the teenager's mask of serenity began to slip.

"I… you…"

"The police are surrounding the apartment as we speak. Before I make your arrogant little life in prison a living hell, which I assure you, I have the ability to do, there's one last matter of business to take care of," hissed Sherlock.

"What's that?"

Those were the last words Ryan remembered saying before blacking out.

* * *

John woke to the steady beat of his own heart, displayed on the monitor next to him. The bright, fluorescent lights were disorienting, and it took him a moment to realise where he was, to remember the events of the last few days.

He pulled himself up groggily and winced as he did, his wrists aching. As a medical professional, he knew it was too soon to be pushing himself, but he got up anyway, walking around the tiny room. There was a small table pressed up against the opposite wall, covered in get well cards from Sarah, Molly, Lestrade, Harry - even a large basket of fruit from Mycroft. He ran a finger over the presents and wishes, searching.

Of course, there was nothing from Sherlock.

John shook his head knowingly and climbed back into bed. He felt around on the bedside table for a TV remote, but all his hand connected with was a cold plate of grey-pink (he assumed) fish. Suddenly realising how hungry he was, John raked his eyes over the tray, ready to dig in to the first edible thing he saw.

Funnily enough, it was a mug that caught his eye.

A very familiar looking mug, in fact, and unlike everything else on the tray, it was very warm to the touch.

John grabbed the handle and put it to his mouth to taste the liquid inside - and was pleasantly surprised as fresh, hot tea spilled into his mouth. Feeling a strange material against the handle, John put the cup down to examine it more closely.

The more he looked, the positive he was that it was the same one, the same mug he had dropped the morning that he left, the morning he'd been… But something in the corner of his eye cut his thoughts short.

There, tied to the handle, was a small, handwritten note in familiar scrawl.

_Happy belated birthday, John._


End file.
